


La Seine

by evangelinerose



Series: Draco One Shots & Drabbles [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20121115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangelinerose/pseuds/evangelinerose
Summary: Draco Malfoy, obliged by the Ministry to spend a month living among the Muggles, ends up spending New Year's Eve with a carefree Muggle he meets on the bank of the Seine.





	La Seine

_Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy,_

_This letter is a reminder that your mandatory cultural programme must begin before the end of the year as per your sentence dictated by the Wizangamot on August 30th earlier this year. A failure to comply will result in a further hearing to determine a new sentence, and you would reside in Azkaban until that time when the next hearing could take place._

_Don’t forget that as proof of your participation, you may notify us with either the invoice or tickets indicating the day of your departure. Ministry officials will then escort you to your train.  
_

_Sincerely,_

_Mafalda Hopkirk, Ministry of Magic Secretary_

Draco Malfoy couldn’t help but read over the fateful letter one more time as he sat, slumped over slightly in his hotel arm chair – his mother was not currently here to remind him that posture was everything. Brows furrowing in irritation, he violently crumpled up the paper and chucked it onto the desk a few feet away.

He supposed he should be grateful; he was able to avoid Azkaban, after all. And while the Ministry was currently reforming so that the prisoners would not be guarded by the dementors, they were still dealing harshly with ex Death Eaters and giving long sentences. And sitting in jail was, of course, not somewhere Draco wanted to be.

The Wizangamot had been considering a _five year_ sentence for him – he shuddered at the thought - when in came Harry Potter and Hermione Granger to testify for him. They threw around words like ‘underage’ and ‘against his will’ and the old bats had listened, because _of course_ they would listen to the great war hero and the war heroine. He scowled heavily.

It was Hermione Granger that had made the suggestion, and he could have sworn there was a spark of mischief in her eye when she did so. Why not, she had said with a small smirk, make sure that the children of Death Eaters eliminate their prejudices? And what better way than through actual exposure to the very people they claim are so beneath them?

And so it was that the Wizangamot had mandated that he was to live among the Muggles for one whole month. He was to live completely non-magically for the entirety of his time with them, not that he had the choice – the Ministry had, of course, taken his wand and would hold it until he returned.

Narcissa Malfoy had fought tooth and nail to eradicate the sentence and Draco had waited, put it off, hoping that somehow, his mother would be successful in convincing the Ministry that he didn’t have to go after all. Narcissa tried giving money, she tried complaining and threatening – nothing worked. The Malfoys no longer had sway, and, as it approached December, he had gotten the reminder letter. Draco knew he could wait no more and so, at the beginning of December he had set off for Rome.

If he had to live among the Muggles, he might as well get sunshine out of it.

It had been chaotic, at first. Not only was there the culture shock of a new country and the language barrier – but of course, the culture shock of the Muggle world. The second had been significantly greater. He had struggled with everyday things and felt hot rage toward Hermione Granger.

Over time, however, it had gotten better. He no longer shuddered when he had to speak to a Muggle in a shop. He could use the currency and understood their transport. And though he was still angry that he owed Potter and Granger, of all people, he had to admit that this was much better than Azkaban.

After Rome he had gone up to Milan, then up through Zurich in Switzerland and finally, his last destination was his current one: Paris.

* * *

New Year’s Eve arrived, and with it came snow and the knowledge that this was his last day abroad. As with most things nowadays, Draco felt the strangest sense of conflict about his arrival back at Malfoy Manor. Tomorrow he’d be back in Wizarding London. Back to his mother’s wedding plans and to his arranged marriage, and back to where people gave him suspicious glares in Diagon Alley. Back to where he was no longer anonymous; but also, back to magic. Back to normalcy.

How could he have known that, despite missing his wand so terribly it ached, he had actually begun to dread his return almost as much as much as he was looking forward to it?

All bundled up in his coat, scarf, and hat, he popped into a small wine shop he had grown quite fond of throughout his time in Paris and purchased the most expensive one they had. The shopkeeper was a very fat and short Frenchman that got excited whenever he saw Draco and all of his cash, and loved to chuckle at the accented French he spoke. He scanned the bar code on the wine bottle – something that had made Draco stare like mad the first time he had seen it in a Muggle shop – and gave it back. When his fingers accidentally brushed Draco’s, the Malfoy heir still didn’t flinch.

Thinking the wine in his backpack would at least keep him warm, he wandered to the riverside of the Siene. 

He had often watched the sunset over the river as the Muggles sprawled along the bank in groups or in pairs, friends and lovers talking and laughing, kissing and smoking cigarettes. He approached an empty bench and sat down, brushing the snow off with his gloved fingers beforehand and wishing he had his wand so he could simply melt it away and the bench would be dry.

Despite the chilly weather, it was a busy night along the river. Loud chatter surrounded him and somewhere further along the bank, someone was playing music out loud in a group of students. Others were already beginning to light sparklers, laughing delightedly and drinking alcohol.

“This seat taken?”

Surprised, he looked up. Perhaps it was his often stony expression or the way he held himself, that he looked the part of someone so obviously aristocratic – but no one had spoken to him outside of shops.

It was a woman, and _Merlin_, was she stunning. For a brief moment, all he could do was stare back at her, mouth slightly agape as he took note of her flushed cheeks, the hair poking out from underneath her winter hat, and the way she was smiling brilliantly at him. And then he regained his composure, merely shaking his head and gesturing to the seat beside him. She too brushed off the snow before she sat down, though he noted that she was not wearing gloves. “Sorry,” she said, “I don’t speak French.”

“English is my first language,” he muttered, half afraid to make eye contact with her. Shops and stores were straightforward. You wanted something, you paid for it, you left. Conversation was centered around this service, and that had been easy in the Muggle world once he had gotten used to being around them and their technology and their money.

Draco Malfoy knew business transactions. He didn’t know this; this casual conversation making with someone living in a whole other world. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, feeling suddenly tense, almost painfully so.

“You’re from England,” she said, sounding delighted, and he chanced a glance at her and almost swore out loud at the way her smile rendered him momentarily speechless. He just nodded, but she pressed on. “I was there not too long ago. Lovely people, but terrible weather. What are you doing in Paris?”

He shrugged, his eyes flicking out over the Siene. “Just traveling.”

“Me too.” Glancing over, he saw that she was still smiling at him. “What’s your name?”

“Draco.”

“Draco,” she repeated, and he hated the way it sounded so beautiful rolling off of her tongue. “That’s an interesting name. I’ve never heard it before. I’m Y/N.”

She held out her hand and he reached out to shake it tentatively. “You don’t have gloves,” was all he could think to say, but she just laughed.

“I know. I was just in South America for a while, actually. I flew into Paris just a few days ago and I haven’t been able to get all of the proper winter clothes yet.”

Draco had to remind himself that she was not talking about flying on a broom. Now he was curious despite himself about this strange and bold woman that had decided to sit beside him and who talked about the world like she had seen all of it. “Why Paris?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Why not?”

He just stared. “What, you just wander around?”

“Pretty much. Mind you, I usually have to stay somewhere cheaper. And warmer. Paris was a bit of a treat for New Years.” Her eyes were flicking across the Siene now, and flickering with the light of a nearby sparkler and a group of laughing teenagers. He was grateful she wasn’t looking; her words had still confused him, and it was really beginning to dawn on him just how different her world was from his.

“Why did you come over to me?” he finally asked, bluntly.

“You were alone, and so was I,” she answered, looking back at him. And then she gave him a coy smile. “And besides, I thought you were cute.”

Was it so vain of him to smile automatically at the compliment? Perhaps. But he couldn’t help it. She saw his reaction and grinned wider in response, seemingly pleased he was starting to loosen up. He hoisted his backpack up into his lap and unzipped it. “Want some wine?”

“Now you’re talking,” she said, laughing and rubbing her hands together.

He pulled out the cork and thought about how different this was from his many dates with his soon-to-be wife, Astoria. How his parents and hers had always been present at the beginning. How she looked prim and was forever coy – like a prize her family was selling. Astoria could never have walked up and made the first move like this. It wouldn’t have been proper.

“So,” he said casually, after he had uncorked the bottle, taken a swig, and passed it to her, “How long have you been on the go?”

She took a long drink from the bottle. “Couple of years.”

He looked over at her incredulously. “Don’t you miss your family?”

A visible and brief ripple of discomfort went over her face, and she took another long drink from the bottle before slowly passing it back. “I visit them when I can. But I like not being stationary, you know? I like the freedom.”

A year ago, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t have understood in the slightest. His family had been – and still, of course, was – his entire life. So was England, and the Wizarding World. And though his comfort zone still lie there and he couldn’t imagine living otherwise, he also understood her, and the shock of it was so intense he had to regain his composure with a particularly long drink from the wine bottle.

This exile to the Muggle World – while also his punishment – had also become his last bout of real freedom. He now knew the value of freedom; after Dark witches and wizards had lived in his home and in his school, with the constant threat and lack of freedom looming over him. And after this, after Paris and the Siene, it was back: back to prim dates and color schemes and dress robes shopping and producing an heir that he knew he was in no way ready for with a woman he didn’t love.

“How about you? How long have you been traveling?” she asked, watching him carefully now.

“Almost a month. It’s my last day before I head back.”

“Where did you go?”

“I started in Rome. Then I went up to Milan, and then Zurich. Paris is the last stop.”

“Oh my god, I _loved_ Rome!” she breathed, and she was off, chatting animatedly about gelato and Vespas and asking if he saw this or that with an expression of pure ecstasy on her face as she spoke. Cold air puffed out around her face as she talked, her cheeks glowing red with the cold. And she was beautiful, much too beautiful. He talked back and laughed with her and before he knew it half an hour had passed, and they were both chuckling at a funny travel story involving a goat and two monks and emptying the rest of the wine.

He understood roughly only seventy percent of what she said and other things she talked about were far too foreign for him to understand – what was _texting_, or these other words she so casually threw out? - but he didn’t even care so much. He found himself fascinated more than anything, increasingly more interested in this world for the first time. 

This was no longer toleration or mere coexistence. This was real interest in _her. _In this Muggle. The world was strange.

He tucked the empty wine in his backpack and stood up. “Come on,” he said, tugging her up.

“Where are we going?” She was grinning, and she didn’t let go of his arm.

“You’ll see,” he said vaguely, steering her in the direction of a busier shopping street.

Snow was still gently falling from the sky. He avoided looking over at her too often, because she was truly angelic there with the white flakes falling around her. She omitted an aura of joy, and it was rather contagious. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled or laughed like this.

“What will you do after you get back home?” he heard her ask.

“Honestly,” he said, smile fading slightly. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do!” She nudged his shoulder as they walked, laughing.

He sighed, and moved his eyes forward. “Get married, actually,” he said finally.

Her steps faltered ever so slightly, but other than that he saw or heard no reaction from her for a long moment. And then, she only said, “Ah. I see.”

“It’s complicated,” he admitted.

“You’ll find I’m actually quite adept at hearing complicated concepts.” She didn’t sound angry, and when he chanced a glance over and met her gaze, her eyes were merely curious. She gave him a small, reassuring smile and he relaxed.

“Well…” He struggled with how to explain. “It’s arranged.”

Her eyebrows shot high up, until they almost reached her hairline. “You’re in an arranged marriage? What are you, royalty or something?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes now.

How do you explain Pureblood eliticism? How do you explain that his family had committed war crimes, and in order to pull their name out from the mud he needed to make this Greengrass union work?

“Wow,” she only said, and then she laughed a little to herself. “That’s unbelievable.”

“She sees other people,” he told her. “We don’t – neither of us want -”

“Neither of you want to marry?” she finished gently.

“No,” he murmured, and caught her gaze once more. They held each other’s stare for a moment longer than usual this time, both in silent agreement. He, the unwilling betrothed and she, the nomad. In each other’s lives for one moment and out the next. So different, and yet the same.

“Well then,” she said, clutching tighter to his arm. “Let’s fall in love with Paris for one night.”

* * *

“Here we are.” They had stopped outside of a clothing store that was due to close in twenty minutes. She looked momentarily confused until he gestured to a display of gloves sitting in the window; and then she began to flush. He found it incredibly endearing. “Pick some out,” he urged.

“I can’t – no, really-”

“I mean it,” he pressed urgently. “Money is nothing to me. Get yourself some gloves. And a scarf while you’re at it. I don’t want you to freeze.”

She gazed at him for a moment in apparent awe, cheeks still pink from cold and embarrassment, and he realized something else: she clearly didn’t have much money. For her, this was huge. Finally, she blurted out, “No really, are you a prince or something?”

He chuckled. “Something like that,” he said again, feeling his stomach clench uncomfortably. A prince of darkness. A prince on the wrong side. A prince that did terrible things. A prince most people back home despised. She would never understand. And she would hate him if she did.

“Thank you.” Her voice was a bit raw, a bit choked. He guessed people didn’t buy her things often.

He reached out and brushed hair out of her face and got lost in her eyes. “My pleasure.”

* * *

“Tell me about you,” he said as they walked along the street after she was bundled in her newly acquired winter clothing.

“I’m sure I’m not nearly as interesting as you, Prince Draco,” she replied playfully.

He got shivers again when he heard his name on her lips. He tried not to look at how red they were with cold, how tantalizingly kissable. She’s too different, he reminded himself. It can’t happen. She’s a Muggle, she can’t know…

“I disagree,” he said, taking her hand and weaving his fingers through it as they walked.

She squeezed his back to let him know the contact was welcome and threw him a smile as they walked through the falling snow, back along the river banks of the Siene. More and more people were coming outside now – some were preparing firecrackers to shoot off in three hours, at midnight.

“I write things, and I take pictures,” she said, shrugging. “I also do editing in Photoshop for other clients. Just little projects here and there to keep me able to survive. Starving artist type of thing.”

Draco had no idea what Photoshop was or what kind of projects she meant, but again, he knew he couldn’t ask. Either way, he was intrigued. “You don’t have a home base, then?”

“I spend lots of time in Central or South America,” she said. “And southeast Asia. It’s cheap and warm and beautiful. As much as I can, I come over to Europe.”

He stopped walking abruptly and she halted with him, again looking confused. They were near the river bank and there was jazz music playing from a club nearby. “Dance with me,” he said, turning to face her and looking intently at her, piercing her with his gray eyes.

For the first time, she seemed a little flustered, and he was pleased to see his effect on her. Slowly, allowing her time to turn him away, he slipped his hands down to rest on her waist. She responded by resting her hands on his shoulders and, very slowly, they began to step in a circle, a charge in the air as they stared at each other. He leaned closer. “Why do you keep moving around the world?”

“I feel empty when I sit still,” she told him, rather breathlessly.

One of his hands slipped to the small of her back and, without warning, he spun her around. She laughed in delight at the sudden movement and he grinned at the sound. A warmth was spreading through him like he had never felt before as she spun to face him again, grinning wildly. “You’re full of surprises, Prince Draco,” she said finally, and then she bit her lip nervously and it was all over. His fragile self control was gone. His eyes slid down to her mouth and she noticed the movement, and their minds were suddenly in the same place.

Ever so carefully, he began to lean forward. But she reached out and stopped him by cupping his cheek.

“Wait until midnight,” she whispered.

* * *

After dancing and laughing by the Siene, she began to hurry him through the streets of Paris. She tugged him along, giggling and practically running, and he couldn’t help but feel her excitement. It was contagious. The sights and smells, the groups of people out and about, the French drifting through the air…it was like an aphrodisiac.

But nothing was as intoxicating as her.

The way she pranced happily through the cobblestone streets made him laugh, attracting the amused glances of other people walking by. She was so carefree in doing exactly as she pleased at every moment. She would point at things – graffiti, architecture, whatever caught her eye – and talk about them, chatter about obscure facts with a light in her eyes at the same time as she refused to tell him where they were going. She was, without a doubt, the most impulsive human being he’d ever met.

She was also the most free. He’d never realized how trapped he’d been.

On the way to their destination – wherever she had decided that may be – they pass an outdoor poetry slam. Immediately, she pulls him over to listen and she listens, enraptured with the play of words in a language she couldn’t even understand. Draco supposed he should watch the person reading, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. Almost instinctively, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. She snuggles back against his chest and claps gleefully when a poem finishes.

When it’s over he drops some Muggle money in the collecting pot and she continues moving him along the street until they reach the underground. On the train that speeds sharply below the streets of Paris, she leans against him and talks about writing.

“Do you write poems?” he asked, moving closer to speak into her ear and get a whiff of her berry-scented shampoo.

“Sometimes. But not for sharing.”

He threw her a mock pouting face and she laughed. “When you write about Paris,” he began, unable to resist asking, “What will you say about me?”

“You’ll have to wait and find out,” she says enigmatically, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

The train halted and they hurried up the stairs and through a few streets until they reached the Eiffel Tower – her goal – and it was lit up beautifully in the dark. They stared at it for a few moments, unable to say much of anything.

“It’s beautiful,” said Draco finally.

“It is, isn’t it?” she said rather dreamily.

He turned to her, unsure where his sudden energy and honesty was coming from. But after all, why not? This night felt separate from his regular life. Tomorrow he’d return to his lack of freedom but tonight, he could try risks. “_You’re_ beautiful.”

She blushed, but she was smiling as he reached for her hand. “You flatter me.” She fumbles in her coat pocket with her free hand and pulls out a device. She takes off her glove and starts to tap across the surface – lights danced. She was _controlling_ it, like some sort of strange wand. He had seen the Muggles use these _all the time_. But what did it _do_?

“Take a picture with me,” she said, thankfully missing the way his mouth was agape as he studied the foreign object she had in her hand. Tugging him close beside her and spinning so the Tower was behind them, she held out the device at arm’s length and to his surprise, he could see the pair of them moving in it like a mirror. “Smile, handsome,” she ordered, nudging him and then grinning forward at the thing; he copied her and smiled and had to keep his jaw in check when she tapped a button and the frame tapped to take the picture. A second later, she had pressed a button and lots of pictures showed up; he had a brief glance of pictures full of various scenes and people before she tapped once more and the photo she had just taken filled the screen.

What the _fuck_?

So this was a Muggle camera? He had to admit, he was dumbfounded. It was…_superior_ to Wizarding ones. He just stared at it for a long moment, feeling as if he had been slapped in the face.

“Well,” she pressed, and he realized she was waiting on him to comment. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, tearing his gaze from it and focusing on her. “Handy,” he said lamely, gesturing toward the device because he felt he should say something.

“What, my phone?” She was looking at him oddly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and realizing he wasn’t blending well at all right now and that he would have been better off just shutting his mouth. He couldn’t very well ask her what a phone was. It was obvious they were incredibly common in their world.

“You don’t have one?” For some reason, she sounded put out.

“Uh, no. I don’t have any phone.” Oh Merlin, was he committing some sort of social faux pas? Was there etiquette around these things? Was he supposed to have one? He wasn’t sure, but he must have just given her bad news, because he saw a heavy disappointment on her face, try as she might to cover it. So he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“You’re making me feel alive,” he told her, because it was true and it didn’t matter whether he said it.

Her eyes widened. She stepped closer, searching his face. “Were you not alive before?”

He just looked back at her seriously, his thoughts on his family. “I’m not sure.”

With a soft expression, she reached out to touch his cheek. “That sounds sad.” He just shrugs and looks away, suddenly uncomfortable with the unnatural vulnerability – though strangely, it had been natural with her, here, tonight – and she seemed to deduce this, for she said, “Let’s go find some sparklers.”

* * *

They happened across a sparkler shop on the way back to the Siene – he learns that her phone device also knows where everything is and is also a map, because she used it to find the fastest route through the winding streets and alleys after another subway ride. By the time they arrived, it was fifteen minutes to midnight. There were far more people here now than there were before, so the conversation was louder and people were considerably drunker, too. There were some early fireworks already going off every few minutes.

She looked mesmerizing in the light of the sparklers they light, a look of utter glee coming over her features watching them spark and slowly fade away. The water in the river was reflecting the shimmering lights of the people’s sparklers, all golds and greens and reds and silvers. They spent the remaining time dancing together to some music someone was playing loud from another device some way down the bank – many people all along the river were entangled in the arms of lovers, dancing away.

Draco loved watching the way her eyes would concentrate and light up. Most of all he loved when they met his. Never had a woman made him breathless, but she had a strange power.

Somewhere, a group began to shout. “Dix! Neuf! Huit!”

Realizing what this meant, Draco abruptly stopped their fast-paced dancing and slowed down so that they were barely moving, hardly rotating at all. He stared directly into her eyes and she stared back.

“Sept! Six!”

He saw clear anticipation on her face as she looked into his eyes, and a certain shyness.

“Cinq!”

Suddenly he wondered if she could possibly be looking forward to this as much as he was.

“Quatre! Trois!”

Very deliberately, she moved her gaze down to his mouth and then flicked back up to stare back into his gray eyes, her own swirling with blatant desire. Similar to when she had bitten her lip earlier, something in him snapped. He no longer cared about waiting the last few seconds; he grabbed her face and yanked her fiercely to him to kiss her.

Somewhere in the very far background, he heard the shouts of all the others on the river bank finishing the count, and a wild, ecstatic cheering that clearly signaled the start to the new year. Fireworks began exploding above them and around them and glasses chinked together, people sang and clapped.

But that was all very far away, because he was kissing Y/N. His mouth was on hers and she was perfect. She had made a delicious gasping sound when he had surprised her and now she was clinging to him like she would never let go, and perhaps he didn’t want her to because he was holding her molded against his body just as tightly. She tasted like wine and vaguely of chocolate, her lips were soft, and he’d never kissed anyone with this much passion in his life. When her fingers drifted to clasp around the back of his head and wound through his hair, he slipped his tongue through her parted lips with a low groan, not caring there were people everywhere, unable to resist tasting her further-

She didn’t seem to mind either, for she responded by tilting her head to kiss him deeper, harder, more, and massaging her tongue against his in a way that was starting to make his breath release in short, desperate gasps. They made out for at least a full minute this way, hands roaming all over each other’s hair and neck and face, until Draco became acutely aware of whistles coming their direction from others and the way he was thinking about getting her clothes off despite being in public.

Regretfully, but knowing it was wise, he pulled away, but not before peppering small kisses across her lips and finally, her cheeks. Her eyes were closed when he opened his, but she met his eyes not long after, and he saw her chest heaving just as his was.

“Fuck,” she whispered finally, and he let out a raspy, breathless laugh.

“Fuck,” he agreed, nodding, tilting his head down to meet his forehead to hers and grinning down at her rather cheekily.

Her eyes were hazy and she was smiling back, look ecstatic and tentative and gorgeous. “I’ve never been kissed like that,” she admitted, biting her lip.

“That’s the only way I’d ever kiss you,” he told her, voice low and husky.

Something was churning on her face. He could see thoughts working in her eyes, in the way her eyebrow scrunched ever so slightly together. She seemed to steel herself and then, finally, it tumbled out of her. “Let’s catch a flight tomorrow. Let’s go somewhere together. Anywhere.”

He had never wanted something more. 

That much he was sure of. He looked at her: her beautiful face, her restless spirit, the smile that was beginning to fade as he stood there, hesitating. He wanted to go with her so much it hurt. He didn’t understand her or her world, but he found that he wanted to. He wanted to dive in headfirst and ignore the consequences, for once in his life.

But he also thought of her full life - all the pictures and people in her phone. Her freedom, her zest, her smile. What could he possibly tell her about his own world? About his place in it? He imagined his family not allowing her inside Malfoy Manor, wrinkling their noses in distaste at the Muggle. He foresaw the way his deeds and his world would make her eyes fill with pain and hardship.

Their worlds were incompatible. It had to be this way.

“I can’t,” he whispered back, averting his eyes.

But he still saw. He saw the flood of sadness in her eyes at his rejection, because how could she know how incompatible they were? She had no idea who he really was or his reasons for refusing to run away from the only life he’d ever known. And he saw the way she quickly tried to stifle it, and stood up a little straighter. “It’s complicated?” she guessed, smiling a little.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Very complicated.” He couldn’t bear the way she smiled, because he saw the disappointment and the way it was choking her, so he hurried to say, “You’re _amazing_. You’re-”

She stood on her toes and pressed another soft, brief kiss to his lips to silence him. “You’re a strange man, Draco,” she whispered against his mouth, her breath ghosting tantalizingly over his lips. Smiling sadly and pulling back, she reached out to touch his cheek again. He wanted to lean into her palm and close his eyes. He wanted to kiss her again until he couldn’t breathe. But he did neither of those things. He just listened as she said, “But you don’t have to explain. I understand.”

She fished into her pocket and slipped a card into his hand. “You can email me,” she said. “If you ever want to feel alive again.” She grinned – it was a joke, he knew that. But it really wasn’t. Not for him.

He stepped forward to kiss her deeply again. A departure. 

“Goodbye, Draco,” she breathed when they broke apart, eyes fluttering open to look at him one last time.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

And he watched her go, walking along the banks of the Siene until she was out of sight. They would both be better off this way. Draco knew that. He knew it was far the best.

But he still couldn’t help but feel empty and hollow when she was gone.


End file.
